


The Talk

by Lempo Soi (Lemposoi)



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (2010)
Genre: F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Parenthood, Past Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemposoi/pseuds/Lempo%20Soi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stoick and Hiccup endure a talk about birds and bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisissirius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisissirius/gifts).



> Despite the god name dropping, none of this is even remotely based on actual ancient Norse cultures, just like the movie wasn't.

Stoick watched Toothless circle over Berk, silent as a sunbeam, his shadow passing over the chief's house and running, jumping up the hill over sparkling snow. Hiccup and Astrid's laughter floated down to him as they passed directly overhead.

Snow was piling on top of Stoick's helmet and coating his beard in flakes that would turn into ice water as soon as he went back inside. His ears were turning pink. He thought about his skinny son braving the freezing wind just to exercise his beast, and felt a curious mixture of pride and worry. Hiccup was fifteen years old and already one of the greatest heroes Berk had ever seen, but his father had still not yet learned to trust him.

 _Give it time_ , Stoick thought in an unusual moment of self-reflection. _My father learned it with me; I'll learn it with Hiccup._

 _Maybe even enough to get on one of those damn things one of these days._

“You'll have to, one day, you know,” said Gobber, appearing beside Stoick at the porch, holding a steaming mug of glögg.

Stoick's brow darkened. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Read my mind. You know I hate it.”

“Nah, you like it,” Gobber said calmly and took a swig of his drink. “Saves you the trouble of holding up your end of the conversation. So you haven't been on a dragon yet. Nobody's making anything of it. We'll go on a little hunting trip one of these days, you and I and a some sweet-natured Gronkle, and get you started.”

Stoick's brow went from cloudy and into thunderous. “I don't like what you're implying, Gobber.”

Gobber patted his shoulder affectionately and changed the subject. “You've got bigger worries than that, chief.”

Stoick grunted, but it was a mild grunt. “We've got plenty of firewood for the winter now that it's not all going into building.”

“It's not that. Has it occurred to you that Hiccup is fifteen?”

“Yes, so?” Stoick half-turned to give Gobber a questioning look.

“And he has a girlfriend.” Gobber waggled his eyebrows.

Toothless swooped low around the log house and Stoick got a look of the pair strapped to his back. Hiccup's hands grasped the mechanism that controlled the dragon's artificial tail wing while his own mechanical limb hooked into the saddle. Astrid was holding him, snuggled close, and both their faces were red with cold and wet with snow, but beaming. Stoick saw Astrid turn her face slightly towards Hiccup, and then they were gone, climbing up towards the white sky. A memory suddenly stung Stoick like an old wound.

It hit him what Gobber had meant. “Oh no," he muttered. "By Thor, Gobber.”

“Yup.” Gobber grinned.

“No. You do it. You're better at this sort of thing.”

“And yet you're the one who knocked up his mother. You're on your own on this one. It'll probably do you both some good. Now come on in, ya big lump, and warm up. We've got a whole keg of glögg and I'm not about to drink it all on my own.”

*

The fire was burning merrily in the fireplace. A Viking fire was no small matter. Had it been outdoors, it would have been more like a small pyre, built up of crossed logs the width of small trees. Stoick, staring into the flames, allowed himself the childish fantasy of jumping on top of it and facing agonizing slow death rather than talk to his son about... about women.

Hiccup had come in some time ago, trailing snow and an annoying aura of happiness. His furs were now hanging by the fireplace to dry and his helmet was perched above it. Stoick looked up at it and thought of his wife. He remembered how she used to hang that breastplate up on the old throne looted from Briton shore somewhere just before getting to bed. There was a lot of her in Hiccup, around the eyes and in his cleverness, though Odin only knew where all that technology stuff came from.

He'd likely never stop missing her.

Stoick heaved a sigh and cleared his throat, bracing himself. “Son,” he called gruffly.

Hiccup was busy drawing schematics at his work table. Schematics, of all things. What a brilliant, oddball, incomprehensible boy he was. Well, but he was his son. Hiccup looked up. He still had that happy glow about him. Stoick wondered how much he already knew. But there was no way he could have-- it was cold as Hel's tits out there-- Not that he himself hadn't--

“Son, I want to talk to you. Come here.” Stoick did not look up, and hoped the dancing lights of the fire hid the blush on his cheeks. “Sit down,” he said when Hiccup obeyed, indicating the smaller chair beside his. He cleared his throat. He hummed. He clicked his tongue.

Hiccup looked at him curiously. “Is this the part where I should be listening, or are you still getting to it? Are we imitating crickets, or something?”

Stoick grunted and scowled at him. “I want to talk to you about women,” he blurted.

All the colour seemed to drain from Hiccup's face. “Oh!”

Stoick gave him a stern look.

Hiccup looked away. “Er.”

“Yes. Hm.”

“Right. Like when the ewe--”

“And the ram--”

“Well, I know all about that, Dad. Sheesh.” Hiccup looked relieved, and stood up. “I'm glad we had this talk. I'll just--”

“Sit down, boy,” Stoick said.

Hiccup sunk back down on the chair, deflating.

“Vikings aren't sheep,” Stoick said in a measured tone, staring at the fire licking wood. “Rams don't care if lambs are born in the snowy season, or if the ewe's too young. Besides, sheep mostly think about grass. They rut once and then go back to thinking about grass.”

“They do like grass,” Hiccup said in a pained voice.

“Vikings care about all sorts of things, like running an orderly fleet, or how they always wanted to set up shark-wrestling matches, or cultivating thicker body hair for winter.”

“Look, Astrid and I are fine, we're not--”

“Quiet,” Stoick said. He regretted the harshness of his voice almost instantly, but he couldn't stop to think or he'd never get past this next part. “I am now going to tell you about sponges dipped in honey and salt. I'm going to tell you about the woman's cycle. Your body. Her body. The things you can do with them. And if you so much as move an inch or say another word before I'm finished, I'm going to strangle you, and then probably strangle myself.” Stoick took a deep breath, and without looking at Hiccup, handed him little carved figures of Freya and Freyr.

Stoick heard Hiccup's voice, just a touch louder than breath, whisper “Oh boy.” He let it go, just that once, and started talking.

*

The night had fallen by the time Hiccup staggered out of his house. He quickly tied snowshoes of his own design to his boot and artificial foot. He looked up to see Toothless curled up around the chimney, asleep. Deciding not to disturb him, Hiccup clumped down the hill towards the Hofferson house, where the candles were lit at the windows and smoke curled up through the chimney.

He found Astrid chopping wood at the back. He watched her for a while. If she'd noticed him – which was likely, seeing as she had finely tuned senses and he'd crunched his way through snow without any pretence of subtlety – she was ignoring him for the moment.

Astrid had turned the chore into a battle practice round. She was using her second-best fighting axe and attacked each block of wood as if it was sneaking up on her. Hiccup admired her backflips, beautifully executed throws and the force of her overhead strike, which chopped clean through the knottiest blocks.

When the last block was in six neat pieces, Astrid hung her axe at her side and said, "Well, are you going to help me put these away?"

Hiccup grinned and clumped to her side and picked up a pile of logs. They put them away in the woodshed.

"I thought you were coming back out at nightfall," Astrid said as she arranged the logs on the pile.

"I really, _really_ don't want to talk about it," Hiccup said, shaking his head.

He could only see Astrid turning her head towards him in the slight moonlight trickling into the woodshed, but her voice was warm, teasing. "Something else I could think of." She pulled him towards her in the dark and kissed him. Uncharacteristically, he squirmed at it.

She drew back. "Hiccup?"

"By Tyr, you're lovely, but I'm kind of traumatized right now."

"What's wrong?" Astrid sounded suddenly worried. She lay a cool hand on his cheek. "Are you okay?"

"No, I am not," Hiccup said. "Dad just gave me the... you know... about... ewes and rams..."

"Oh! The talk?"

"That's it."

Astrid laughed with sudden relief, and hit Hiccup on the back in a comradely fashion that made his knees buckle. "I got that two years ago," she said kindly. "You'll live."

"Thanks." He grinned at her, remembered it was too dark to see, and gave her a quick kiss instead. Then he kissed her again, and again. "Maybe I'm not so traumatized after all."

"Mm-hmm!"

*

Up the hill, Gobber was pouring Stoick something stronger than glögg.

"It was horrible," Stoick moaned.

"I know," Gobber said sympathetically, patting his chieftain on the shoulder. "It's all over now."

"I miss her so much," Stoick said and scoffed another pint.

"I know."

"I wish I was a sheep," said Stoick and with a mournful 'baa' he fell forward on to the table.

Gobber felt laughter bubbling up inside him, but settled for a grin, knowing Stoick wasn't quite that unconscious yet. He hoisted the big man on his shoulder, carried him upstairs to bed and tucked him in.

He looked at his snoring shape in the moonlight for a moment, sighed, and shook his head with a smile. He'd never married, but sometimes he felt like he had two sons to look after. With that thought, he found his hat and trudged his way back through snow and to his forge.


End file.
